All Yours
by TheEnergizerBunny
Summary: But just like everything that's ever been his before, Clara Oswald is just as fragile. Just as mortal. Just as easy to lose. And he'd promised himself he'd never take the risk of another loss. He'd had quite enough of that in the past, thank you. 11/Clara one-shot, slightly future


**Title: **All Yours  
**Fandom: **Doctor Who  
**Pairing: **11/Clara  
**Word Count: **2, 955  
**Summary: **But just like everything that's ever been his before, Clara Oswald is just as fragile. Just as mortal. Just as _easy to lose. _And he'd promised himself he'd never take the risk of another loss. He'd had quite enough of that in the past, thank you.

**Author's Note: **Hello again! It's so nice to be back. :-) Thank you so much for the support you showed while I was away. I took the time to read all the reviews you left me after Ali posted the update and I am _so grateful _to be part of such an amazing community. As of the moment, I am living with my aunt, and I am slowly but effectively recovering. I wrote this the day I finished therapy and did the final revisions yesterday, so I'm quite happy with how it turned out. It's long-ish, to make up for my long-ish absence. :-P I hope you like it!

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Who_, nor do I own Matt Smith, but that's okay, because you don't either.

* * *

**_All Yours_**

* * *

She is a ball of fire. Of unwavering, restless energy. Of _impossibility _and _curiosity_. Eyes wide with genuine wonder and wit that matched (even surpassed, though he'd never admit that) his own, she is Clara Oswald, and she is _his._

It had taken him a while to put two and two together but he'd finally come to terms with the fact that this tiny woman across from him, flour smeared on both her cheeks and her nose as she flounces about in the kitchen wearing an 'Intergalactic Baker' apron, is actually, really _his._

_His _companion, _his _mystery, _his _Clara.

He realized this when he'd popped up in the Maitland's garage after a day of recalibrating the TARDIS motherboard (as per standard, she _is _a high maintenance ship). He'd left her there for a while to pack some things she'd be bringing along to their travels ("a girl's got to have a scrapbook, Doctor, that way we can collect stickers without being judged") and when he came back, she'd already been standing by the door frame, a duffel bag in one hand and her laptop in another, smiling at him.

He grinned. "So then, Clara Oswald, would you like me to show you the stars?"

At this her smile turned into a smirk, lifting her arms to her sides and saying, "I'm all yours."

But just like everything that's ever been his before, Clara Oswald is just as fragile.

Just as mortal.

Just as _easy to lose._

And he'd promised himself he'd never take the risk of another loss. (He'd had quite enough of that in the past, thank you.)

But then _she _happened (once, twice, thrice), blowing all his self-made promises out of the water. He's not quite sure how she managed to do that, though, when technically she _hasn't_ been doing anything at all but be... _Clara._

He doesn't know how many times he's said her name in his head (sometimes, accidentally aloud), or how many times he caught himself staring at her when she plays with the console (she _does _have a thing for the wibbly-wobbly lever). He doesn't know how long he's been so _enthralled _by her whole existence, so _invested _in this mystery of a woman that it's starting to feel like she's been around all this time. (Awe in familiarity. A paradox that makes sense.)

Still, he doesn't ignore the inevitable. One thing the Doctor never does is mess with the natural order of the Universe, and balance _demanded _chaos. Balance demanded _im_balance as life demanded death, and no matter how much of a mystery Clara Oswald was, she is still horribly, heartbreakingly human.

Mortal.

_Easy to lose._

She was no different than all the rest, and yet, she was. (Another paradox that makes sense.) A puzzle he's been meaning to solve, only he doesn't know how long it would take for him to finally _crack her _before… well, like he said, before the inevitable.

Maybe being his wasn't all it's cut out to be.

Maybe being his isn't so much a good thing as it is a bad thing.

No, maybe it _is _a bad thing.

They've been on so many adventures, visited so many planets, gone forwards and backwards through time and faced danger after danger while _death _was just looming around the corner, waiting for its moment to strike – patiently, perseveringly waiting for the moment it would most hurt, most _destroy _– to take his Clara away from him.

He doesn't know if he could take it.

He realizes that all those centuries floating around in a mad blue box made him a tiny bit selfish. Who was he to think she was _his_? She is her own person, her own _Clara_, and she can opt to up and leave him whenever she wanted to. He doesn't have a claim on her, nor does he have the right to dictate her decisions (even if it was for her own safety), and to keep her by his side for his own selfish reasons defied everything about her being _his responsibility_.

He'd seen her die twice. He doesn't want to have to see it again.

So he leaves her. He leaves his Clara in London, 2013, where she will be safe, sound, and _far away_ from him and all the dodgy misadventures that seem to follow his trail.

It was for the best.

"_Where're you headed to next?" She had asked, exiting the TARDIS before turning to him. Adjusting the strap of her bag, she looked up at him, her face still glowing from their last venture._

"_Uh," he began, his feet shuffling. "I'm not quite sure yet. Might just skip to tomorrow and get myself a breakfast bagel, I don't know. "_

_She giggled, her eyes crinkling in that adorable way she always does. "Yes, well, _I'll _skip on to bed, as _it_," she spat out, referring to the time machine in mock vehemence, "refuses to give me a comfortable bed to sleep in," she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest._

_The Doctor laughed dryly. "You _did _call her a snog-box."_

"_Oh, I did, didn't I?" she replied apologetically, quickly leaning to the side to address the blue box behind him formally. "Sorry about that! Really am!"_

_Standing upright again, she smiled up at him, nudging his shoulder playfully before starting up the porch and heading for the door. "See you when I see you!"_

Which she doesn't.

For a long, long while.

But he _did_ give her his number once, and she's been leaving him messages (messages he doesn't quite know how to answer).

"Doctor, I think I'd like to go to that one planet you mentioned… the, um… what was it, Solis? The one with the star-bearing trees, I'd like to go there next. Call me before you drop by."

"Does Chicago, circa 1927 strike your fancy, Doctor? You can don on a fake, twirly mustache, take that quadricycle you said you invented out for a spin, and we'd be the coolest cats in 20th century America. Give me a ring. Tell me what you think."

"Yeah, hey Doctor, are you stopping by anytime soon? It's been what, 8 months? I hope you're not off saving worlds on your own. _Oooh_, when I find out you went to Solis without me you are _definitely_ getting an earful, mister! Call me back."

"Doctor, it's been over a year since I saw you last. Are you avoiding me?"

"Doctor, I don't know what's going on, but I'm… I'm worried about you. What's going on? Are you okay? Please, Doctor, answer my messages. Where are you?"

"I miss you, Doctor."

Oh, he missed her too (so much, _so much_), but he valued her life more than he did his own happiness (the way it should have been, the way it always should be), and no matter how much he missed waking up to the smell of burning soufflés in the morning, the protective knot in his insides declared Clara Oswald _had to be safe_, and if all it took to get that was to be alone, then he'll gladly take it.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he walks out of his room and into the central panel, pulling down a lever to ready the TARDIS for take-off. Just as he was about to maneuver the stick shift on the other side of the panel, he hears it.

The phone, tucked inside the exterior of the TARDIS (the bells of St. John as the Abbott had called it), _ringing_.

He pulls the lever back up and heads out the door, opening the box that concealed the vintage telephone. He stares at it, tentatively reaching for the handle when he stops himself.

_It could be Clara._

Closing the box, the ringing ensued, stopping only for a few seconds before ringing again. He tries to ignore the insistent chiming by starting up the TARDIS one more time but it simply wouldn't move, not an inch nor a second away from where it currently is situated (in the catacombs of Paris, year 1991). With the ringing outside still going on, he leans on the panel, guessing that the signals being dispatched by the telephone was interfering with the key dimensioning processes that enabled the TARDIS to travel. Gripping on the circular edges of the console, he resolves to act on impulse.

If it _is _Clara on the other line (which he is certain of), he'll make sure she knows the truth this time - that he doesn't want to hear from her and wants nothing, _nothing_ to do with her anymore. (Rule Number 1,_ the Doctor lies_.)

Opening the tiny compartment and picking up the handle, he speaks into the mouthpiece. _"Clara-."_

"Gotcha," her voice replies, hanging up immediately right after.

Confused but already suspicious, he rushes back into the time machine, lights going off at a time, the wheels above the central panel spinning in varying directions. Jumping over the steps up to the main platform, he looks up the screen, watching as the gray static slowly clear to form a fuzzy yet otherwise solid video image.

He's forgotten how clever Clara could be.

"Oy, Doctor, it's been a while," she says from the monitor, not looking at all different from when they last saw each other. "Sorry about the quality. There's only so much technology can do to reach a man in, oh, 1991 Paris."

Once again, in the presence of the _impossible _Clara Oswald, the Doctor is reduced to nothing but a sputtering buffoon.

"I see you haven't changed much. Still got that ridiculous bowtie on, for God's sake. Are you coming to get me now? Now would be ideal_. _Angie's off at her boyfriend's and I don't really want to catch her when she gets back. She's 18 and _in love_," she continues, rolling her eyes before tapping away at her keyboard. "Oh come on, Doctor, are you going to just keep staring like that? It's quite unsettling."

_Still_ a sputtering buffoon.

"It's alright, you can ask," she encourages, looking back up at him, her lips in a smirk. "I _do_ enjoy getting to boast a bit."

Finally having recovered from the initial shock of seeing her again, he manages to speak. "How?"

"I found this number while I was clearing up my contacts list earlier today and remembered that I got it from that woman in the shop all those years ago, the day you popped up on my doorstep dressed as a monk and called me _Oswin_," she begins, smiling fondly at the memory. "I decided to leg it and call that number again, to see if I can somehow get a signal and trace the transmissions. Of course you had to answer, which you did, thank God. I hacked into the line, got myself in the telecom network, hooked my webcam and microphone to the digital mainframe and _ta-da_! It's basically just Skype," she concludes, shrugging.

Clever, _clever _Clara Oswald.

"Why?" He asks in reply. "What's all this for?"

At that, the curve that formed her smug smirk straightened into a full line, her eyes sad and confused but _determined _and suddenly all he wants to do is apologize.

"I needed answers," she tells him, tapping on a single key on her keyboard that sent the panel whirring. The wheels started to spin again, and the screen went black, but it was the quick jolt he felt on his feet, forcing him to hold on to a nearby rail that made him realize what was happening: she was flying the TARDIS.

No more than a minute later, he hears the familiar sound of the TARDIS getting ready to land and hurries to the door, opening it to reveal that he's somehow went forward through time and parked at the middle of a very familiar living room. _The Maitland's._

Hearing footsteps from behind him, he turns around to see Clara treading down the staircase, stopping right at the foot of the stairs a measly distance away from where he was standing.

"Clara…"

Not waiting for him to finish the rest of his sentence, she rushes up towards him and slaps him, fearlessly looking him in the eye when he reaches up to touch his cheek.

"4 years, 7 months, and 12 days, Doctor. 4 years, 7 months, 12 days."

"Clara, I–,"

"The wait would have been fine, actually. I know how time travelling works. I know how there are certain time rifts that could mean different time intervals for the both of us and I understood that, I did. I understood how nothing is ever really _constant _with you, and I tried not to let it get to me that much. But then I left you messages, and you never replied… Must have lost count with the lot I left you. I was starting to think something _happened _to you!"

"Yes, well, I'm here now, aren't I?" He responds (rather unwisely, he thinks, now that he's said that out loud).

"Only because I sent you!" She shouts, effectively shutting the Doctor up for a short while. She paces in the living room, chewing on her bottom lip before turning to face the Doctor again, the determination in her eyes gone but the sadness and the confusion still there.

It's amazing how much he can tell from her eyes alone.

"Why did you leave me all of a sudden?" She starts, sauntering over to him. "Why didn't you come back?"

The Doctor avoids her gaze for a minute, unsuccessfully ignoring the holes she was boring into the side of his head. "It was for your own good," he replies, his voice small and uncertain, so_ unlike _him.

"My own good?" Clara repeats, her tone disbelieving. "Are you _serious_?"

He turns his back on her and presses his palm to his forehead, walking around the room to get his body to at least _do something. _He was afraid she'd put up a fight.

"Who are you to tell me what is and what's not for my own good? I'm not some child that you can boss around and put in the corner! I can handle myself just _fine_, thank you very much, and until you get it in your _thick head _that I'm not sweet, little, porcelain Clara, then–."

"_I can't see you die again!" _He blurts out, cutting her off, his voice now booming but still so incredibly _weak _that it takes Clara aback. She looks up at him confusedly and he resigns himself to sit on the couch, his head in his hands as he continues.

"There were many before you. _Companions_, as I'd called them. People I cared about. People I loved."

He feels the cushions shift slightly, the warmth radiating from Clara's body seated right next to him allowing him comfort. He turns to look at the floor and clasps his hands in front of him, watching her from the corner of his eye listening to him with great intent.

"I ruined them, Clara. Ruined their pasts, their futures. I made them live a life with me because I was old and strange and _lonely, _and they, in turn, had to suffer the consequences… tagging along with a mad space man in his mad blue box." He faces her, searching her eyes for any sign of understanding. "I didn't want to make the same mistake with you."

For a while, they sit in somber silence, the air around them thickening. She doesn't speak, and the Doctor starts to think that maybe now she finally gets it. She doesn't have to wait around for him anymore. She can pass him off as a weird, long dream and forget about him, just as he had wanted her to. (Again, refer to Rule Number 1.)

"You didn't," she begins, placing her hand on his knee. "You're _not_, but… 'ruined them', what does that mean? What are you afraid of, exactly?"

"Losing you, like I did the rest of them," he answers with hesitation, facing the floor again, the weight of his past crushing his shoulders as he enumerated their names one by one in his head_._

"And you will," she agrees, interrupting his train of thought. "Not by choice, I'll tell you that. Travelling with you is the closest I feel to home, to be honest. Won't be giving that up anytime soon," she quips, offering him a reassuring smile. "But one day, certainly, when I'm old and saggy and bed-ridden," she laughs, crinkling her nose at the thought of being immobile, "or when by some _very _unlikely, _very _improbable circumstances, I fall, and fail to get back up again," she continues, her eyes falling to her feet, "you _will _lose me, and you will have to accept that."

"But don't let the fear of what's to come stop you from living the present, Doctor, _especially_ when you have a box that can travel anywhere through time and space, 'cause that'd just be a waste of beautiful memories left unmade," she finishes, turning to face him again, smiling in a way that made him know she meant every word.

"I'll be here for as long as you'll have me, chin-boy," she says through a cheeky grin, standing up chirpily and spreading her arms out to her sides, the same way she had all those years ago. "I'm all yours."

For she was a ball of fire. Of unwavering, restless energy. Of _impossibility _and _curiosity_. Eyes wide with genuine wonder and wit that matched (even surpassed, he sourly admits) his own, she was Clara Oswald, and she was _his. _

* * *

_"How did you do that, by the way? Hack the TARDIS?"_

_"Didn't have to. She let me in."_

* * *

**/fin**


End file.
